protecting you
by Tariel H
Summary: All he wanted to do was protect her.
1. knowing

**A/N: Aggressively ignores canon. **

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Andy knows her.

He prides himself on knowing her.

He knows her better for everything she doesn't say (her words tell him nothing. Her face is the only map and he willingly follows the downtrodden paths that it takes him), and he knows that he will not fail her. He loves her. How could this love, a love so sweet and pure, ever steer him wrong? He memorizes her secrets (the ones she tells him and the ones she doesn't have too), imprinting them in his memory. He will never forget, and he will never hurt her. He wants to protect her. He's going to protect her.

_He's going to protect her._

He knows when she's had one of those days, those 36-hour shifts that leave her ragged and exhausted. He knows when she has those days that make her want to scream and run (because this town is too small and she is a giant among them), and on those day, he will lie by her side, mapping the constellations of scars along the expanse of her back under his trembling fingertips, never failing to press his mouth in a tender imitation of a kiss the crook under her neck, a kiss that releases the sigh holding her bones taut. She melts into him, and he holds her for as long as she lets him (it is never long enough. He always wants more, but he accepts what she is willing to give. This is what love is. This is love. This is what he tells himself).

With her, he wants nothing more than to be careful. But he isn't too sure he knows how.


	2. demons

**A/N: Still ignoring canon. Those this could ironically be canon compliment. **

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There are moments when he is with her that he can only acquaint with fear. A sudden misstep has him plunging towards the darkness, a hole in his world so vast that he will be consumed. sSark panic will fill his lungs, clogged his mind and breath. He will not be able to breathe properly until he knows that she is safe, small hand tucked into his own.

_I am afraid_, he realizes_, that this is real. And that I will lose her._

And this is what the demon latches onto, this gut twisting fear of losing her, not through any fault of her own, but because of his. Finishing mounds of paperwork, he'll see blood, _her_ blood, mercilessly straining his fingertips. No matter how many times he runs his hands under warm water, the blood will never wash away.

"Stop _fucking _with my mind!" He yells, until his voice his raw, smashing his fist o the wall. Now, there is real blood on his hands, dripping onto the mirror shards at his feet. There are only flashes, her laugh, Abbie's soft eyes, unassuming and gentle, intimate moments that only they know . These images, bearable, but the ones of her dead, dying, screaming, haunt him, echo in his ears.

"This isn't real." And a voice like thunder calls from above, mocking him, sliding under his skin, jostling his bones until his hands shake and rattle. "...Is this real?" he asks, now a question (this is what the demons want, the planting of the seeds od doubt inhis mind. Shit, maybe he's just fooling himself, he can't protect her, not from this. How can he protect her when he can't even keep himself safe? That seed of doubt, that's what these demons wanted.), and _again _the voice rises like thunder, the world turns to ash, and it _burns, _things once green turn to ash, and Andy is running,_running, _from some nameless beast that yaps at his heels

He does not feel whole until he is home again, with Abbie in his arms, her smile pressed against the crook of his neck. It is only then, as he holds her tight that he feels whole.

Happy.  
_Human. _


	3. messy business

**A/N: PWP warning. Character building stuff here. It's my duty to the fandom to ensure these two get their time together.**

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sleeping's messy business with him, all legs tangled together in an unseemly amount of naked skin, bodies pressed so tightly when he rolls over, he crushes her ribs, and when she shifts in the midst of dreams, she never fails to elbow him in the stomach.

it's messy, when they sleep together. The sex is good, better than good; it makes her feel strong and alive. She's a sucker for the way he arches his back as as she squeezes her thighs around him, and oh god— the way he moans her name, like a prayer, over and over, thumb rolling over her clit, hips thrusting up to meet her depth (that gasping is her, his hands gripping the sides of her waist, that low keening the only sound of her begging for more)—

it's all cumming and climaxing messily, names constricted in throats so when they are uttered they are no longer names but mantras spoken to be kept sane. her nails dig into the skin of his shoulders, the half moon of his nails are semipermanently indented on her ass.

it's the stuff after that makes it hard, (people don't stay; ever, one of her cardinal rules for life) and when he draws himself out of her, he doesn't move to go. not even when she wraps his knuckles on his chest; "it's time for you to go—",

but Andy says "no", naturally, affectionately palming the cinnamon expanse of her skin until she relents (it's his way of asking to stay, of course), shivering into cool fingertips, and when she sleeps, he doesn't have room to move that first night, and neither get much sleep (it's been such a long time, they've forgotten where to put their arms around their partners; the neck? waist? and legs…can't help but wake with every little sound) he turns over in his sleep, and she molds herself against his back, hair tangling with his, nuzzling his neck, one of her small hands wrapping around his waist as she sleeps (but of course her arms aren't long enough and fall short of the mark).

that isn't the endgame position, and he still has to detangle the sheets come morning (the comforter lies haphazardly on the floor). she frankly can't be bothered helping, laying on her back, arm flung across the one remaining pillow. his dejection at deepening the tangles is amusing, her easy chuckles falling on deaf ears as he turns to her—

somehow his face is pressed against the crease of her thigh, her hands tangled as his tongue deftly brushing against the enclosing folds of her sex, adding one two three fingers, rocking her hips up to as he curls his fingers and fucks her thoroughly with his hands, mouth, cock, (there it is, that wanton moan of pure ecstasy)—

sleeping's messy. but they'll find their rhythm in time.


	4. stakeout

**A/N: These dorks. So, leave me prompts for these two, or I'l have to label this as complete, and I know that none of us wants that, right? **

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_prompt: abbie and andy on a stakeout; she touches his shoulder briefly during and his entire world shifts._

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He doesn't think he's ever been more aware of a silence in his life. It nestles between them, a sleeping lion, the two of tem separated only by the glove box and two plastic cups of bitter, black coffee that neither of them has moved to touch since this whole charade began.

"So." Abbie is the one to break the silence, unsurprisingly (and really, in hindsight, this introduces some horrible precedent in their lives), turning her face up to his. Easily, Andy is flummoxed by the honest curiosity in her eyes (and yes, boredom too but he chalks tat up to being in a car for three straight hours without a word being spoken).

"This your first stakeout?" Horrible, it's positively horrible, this flushing of his face, it really needs to stop; he's a grown ass man, he shouldn't flush cherry red like he's got some schoolgirl crush. Andy jerks his head down (realizing too late late that it's too dark for her to see his nod), clasping his fingers together in his lap.

"Yes." His legs are long and gangly and he shifts, one hand curling on his thigh (all of a sudden his body feels stretched to the limit) and her eyes are turned on him, a question written in their depth.

"You look nervous." He hesitates, and gives a half depreciating shrug, a small smile flickering briefly on his lips. Abbie notices that, biting on her lip to hide the smile of her own.

"I am." Her eyes are somehow imploring (for what, though? connection, maybe?), her gaze too keen for him to handle right now, so he busies himself with reaching for the coffee, and is thus grossly unprepared when her small hands (how is it even possible to have hands that small, really?) rest gently his shoulder. Their eyes meet, and even in this darkness her smile instantaneous, illuminating the cramped car with with the force and tenacity of the sun itself_. _

"You'll be fine Andy." Swallowing becomes difficult, and the possibility of drawing air into his lungs is truly nonexistent. Her fingers briefly trace the outline of his shoulder before retreating back into the bubble of her personal space. Andy loses his grip on the coffee cup as she does so, the ghosts of her fingertips haunting. Dark liquid spills out all over, drenching his pants, the smell of burnt coffee diffusing through the air.

"Jesus, Abbie—" But Abbie has thrown her head back and has let out laugh, a deep unconscious guffaw that seems to resonate down from her very soul. He's never heard her laugh like that (or laugh at all). _He _is the one to make her laugh like that. It is perplexing, that sound, intoxicating despite its short length, the depth deeper than he could ever imagine.

His hands shake a bit and they both pretend not to notice when their fingers brush as they both reach for the napkins at the same time, that laugh still escaping from the back of her throat (no, now it's more of a giggle. Abbie Mills. Giggling. The world _must _be ending). His eyes keep glancing over towards her, and he can clearly define himself within the parameters of that laugh, her touch, the smiles she hands him. And, when she smiles back, (and she does return it, with full force) Andy suddenly knows he'll be fine.


End file.
